A vignette from Mongolia

‘That feeling when you’re so cold you’d give anything to be warm…’ – Bear Grylls.

First touch of cold

The first thing that strikes me as I step into the world is the biting cold of night. I have been stuck in transit for the past thirty hours. This is the first step outside airports since I left the late summer warmth of New Zealand. It is 3am and I’ve just arrived in Mongolia.

The driver who has come to collect me at this ungodly hour points towards a battered taxi and gestures that this is our ride. He speaks a couple of words of English. I speak no Mongolian. We communicate with smiles and sign language, mutual understanding between us.

It’s cold and it’s very late. Let’s get in the car and go!

Despite being near Ulaanbaatar, the capital, there is little light pollution. The sky is inky black. Pinprick stars are twinkling across its vast backdrop, like diamonds scattered across velvet. I shiver and pull my jacket more tightly around me. Right now, the cold is merely an inconvenience. I’m unaware that the icy chill wrapping itself around me in its tight embrace will come to play an important part of my time in this beautiful, harsh country. I will battle the cold on a daily basis. The grip of winter has not quite left the steppe and the ground is still hard as iron.

A daily battle

Before I visited Mongolia, I never really experienced such bone-numbing cold before. Once in the country, I am always on the edge of it, trying to get one over on the chill. I build bigger, better fires, pull the ger door more tightly shut to minimise drafts and bury myself under layers of blankets. I drink hot coffee and eat warm soup, rich with vegetables and noodles, salt and pepper. But for all I do to fight the chill, the bitter cold is never far behind me.

Whenever the battle is lost, the cold seeps into my bones, taking over my entire body and rattling my teeth in my skull. I add another jumper, another log on the fire, another hot drink so that I can wrap my hands tightly around the mug for ten minutes relief. The sharp winds blast across the arid steppe unchecked, whistling down hillsides and through gullies and valleys. The wind brings the mercury down even further. It bites and cruelly rips, casually tugging aside loose clothing, finding any bare flesh it can to kiss, then knife.

Around the fire

Come evening, the light fades from the plains and the bright moon rises. We sit in our ger and talk endlessly, cosy for the first time all day around a roaring fire. It is stoked higher and higher, piled with wood we collected earlier. Layers are shed as the heat rises to an almost unbearable level. The five of us share stories and swap tales about our lives. Mongolian, British, Dutch, Mexican and French. A mesh and tangle of cultures, languages and backgrounds. For once, we forget the cold that lurks on the other side of the door. We laugh endlessly, our faces lit by a single guttered candle.

As bedtime nears, the fire dies down. Flames flicker lower and lower, the warmth leaches slowly away. It is an all too brief respite. I curl up beneath my blankets and sleep as the embers flow and, finally, fizzle out.

Frosty mornings

By morning, the grate is choked with dead, grey ash. I am cocooned in bed, only my nose poking out from beneath my layers. I can feel the cold leaching in, but I’m still cosy. So far, I’m still winning… I wiggle my toes in the warmth and delay rising as long as possible, prolonging the warmth. Frost nips at my nose, riding the air beyond my haven.

Finally up and dressed, I light the fire once more, stacking wood, working as quickly as possible. The first cup of coffee brings energy. Beyond the door, the sun is shining and it is ever so slightly warmer than yesterday. I am ready for another day.

Want to find out why I didn’t arrive in Mongolia until 3am that night?

Read: Murphy’s Law (How Everything Went Wrong on my Flight to Mongolia).